The joy of being grown up is no one tells you what time to go to bed. Whilst this means I'm no longer the It’s-Not-Fair 10 year old expelled to bed whilst Norman Wisdom cavorted downstairs, I make little use of my extra hours. If I plonk myself in front of the television, I'm usually asleep before the first programme finishes, and rather wish I’d gone straight to bed.
The boys do not suffer this way.
Last time they fell asleep watching television was probably to Ringo Starr rumbling through another Thomas The Tank Engine video. And until we corrupted Jamie with an iPod and laptop, he would take himself upstairs. The first I would know of it, was when there was no answer to my shouts – because he was already in bed, minty breathed and sound asleep.
Post electronics, he’s reverted to a toddler who I have to check through the Bath, Teeth, Into Bed and Lights Out process - each unguarded step interspersed with a screen. And even then a glow comes from the room when he thinks I've stopped prowling and it’s safe to turn on a device again.
Somehow, reading by torchlight under the bedclothes seemed more innocent.
Daniel, who never slept as a baby, hasn’t changed. We had a few years of pretending he had a bedtime, but all that meant was he would lie awake for an hour or two, developing all the anguish of an insomniac. From being allowed to keep his light on to read, he has pushed back the boundaries and now fearlessly plays on his laptop, his bass and his amp.
So why am I surprised when 11:30 pm sees us going through YouTube, looking for the best instructions on restringing guitars? Bring back the world where the most sophisticated device was the television, programmes were finite and Zebedee reminded us go to bed.
The boys do not suffer this way.
Last time they fell asleep watching television was probably to Ringo Starr rumbling through another Thomas The Tank Engine video. And until we corrupted Jamie with an iPod and laptop, he would take himself upstairs. The first I would know of it, was when there was no answer to my shouts – because he was already in bed, minty breathed and sound asleep.
Post electronics, he’s reverted to a toddler who I have to check through the Bath, Teeth, Into Bed and Lights Out process - each unguarded step interspersed with a screen. And even then a glow comes from the room when he thinks I've stopped prowling and it’s safe to turn on a device again.
Somehow, reading by torchlight under the bedclothes seemed more innocent.
Daniel, who never slept as a baby, hasn’t changed. We had a few years of pretending he had a bedtime, but all that meant was he would lie awake for an hour or two, developing all the anguish of an insomniac. From being allowed to keep his light on to read, he has pushed back the boundaries and now fearlessly plays on his laptop, his bass and his amp.
So why am I surprised when 11:30 pm sees us going through YouTube, looking for the best instructions on restringing guitars? Bring back the world where the most sophisticated device was the television, programmes were finite and Zebedee reminded us go to bed.
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